R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

20
Neighbors gaped at the pile of clothes, compact discs, and other items
strewn across the last patch of winter brown on the green lawn. Miriam
cringed. Guilt clamped down on her like a vise. A clock radio flew out the
window and landed at her feet. Daffodils and tulips quivered in the breeze. A
shiver ran through her body. She pressed the desire to cry down into her stomach,
where it churned and ached like a stone caught in a whirlpool. Tears were of no
help here, she reminded herself. She called out, “Jake? Jake!”
A couple of books whizzed past her head and crashed into the growing heap.
Papers blossomed into the air and fluttered down like falling petals. Ignoring the
knot in her stomach, she pressed her hands against her hips to still the trembling.
Jake stuck his head out the window and grinned. “Mom! I’ll come down.”
A couple from across the street confronted Miriam. The woman pointed at
Jake. “Why don’t you do something about him? He shouldn’t be allowed to live
alone. What kind of mother are you anyway?”
Miriam stared at her, unable to answer.
The man said, “I worry about my family with that psycho living here. He
belongs in a nuthouse.” He pulled his wife away. They headed toward their
apartment.
Miriam recoiled from this ignorant hatred. Heat flooded her face. She bent
down, stacked some books and folded a shirt. The sweet scent of the budding
dogwood trees that lined the street momentarily masked the bitter taste in her
mouth. Two young women gawked, their faces hard with fear. I have to explain,
Miriam thought, Jake isn’t dangerous. It’s not him. It’s the illness. She was about
to speak when the door swung open. Jake strode towards her. He wore clothes
she’d never seen, light tan doeskin pants and an expensive looking black blazer. It
would have been an exotic handsome look, but on his bare chest, framed by the
cashmere lapels, he’d drawn a sloppy outline of a dragon with a green felt tip pen.
Dirt and dried blood caked his bare feet.
“Mom! I’m glad you’re here. Let’s go for a spin in the new ride.” He pointed to
a silver Jaguar convertible parked in the carport. “I’ll take you for lunch downtown
to celebrate my first book contract.”
The scratchy waistband of Miriam’s skirt pinched her side. She hadn’t
changed from her work clothes. “Oh, Jake. What are you doing? You can’t afford
that car or those clothes. Why are you throwing all of your things out the window?”